


A Certain Slant of Light

by Paimpont



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 13:41:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paimpont/pseuds/Paimpont
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war is over, and students are returning to Hogwarts. No one seems to notice that there is a new ghost lingering in the shadows. No one, except for a girl who can't sleep... Ghost!Tom/Hermione.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Certain Slant of Light

It is early morning when I first find myself back at Hogwarts.

The castle seems to shimmer with the faint golden light of dawn, but the shadows are still cold and dark. The air is heavy with dew and the scent of roses. A deep silence lingers over the familiar grounds. There is no one else about; perhaps everyone has gone home for the summer. But the ancient castle is still here and still the same. Something stirs strangely in my heart as I stand here alone, gazing up at the familiar stone walls. For a moment, I almost feel like weeping, but I seem to have forgotten how.

A shadow seems to linger over my heart for the first few days after my return, some dark and bitter grief, but I cannot recall where it has come from. As I wander slowly along familiar paths and explore the long-forgotten hallways of the castle I once loved, the shadows seem to lift, and I find delight in remembering: I remember this warm flickering light of the torches along the hallways; I remember the hidden courtyards behind the high iron gates and the silvery plumes of the fountains in the morning mist; I remember the deep greenery of the yew trees.

Sometimes I catch a brief glimpse of a solitary dark-robed figure walking along a deserted passageway - a professor, perhaps, spending the warm fragrant summer days preparing lessons for the autumn term, or making sure the walls that had crumbled during the battle have been properly repaired.

Sometimes I see familiar faces, and I call out names that arise from my recollection: Minerva... Do you remember me? We went to school here together, ages ago. Horace? Is that you? Surely, you remember me? There were days when you couldn't tear your glance away from my face, days when I made you tell me about dark and secret things you should have kept to yourself... 

But they don't seem to see me. I whisper in their ears, and they pause for a moment and draw their breath sharply. But then they move on, and they walk right by me with unseeing eyes.

Slowly, I begin to realize that I am a ghost.

A ghost? Yes, I seem to remember dying, although the recollection is oddly blurred and distant now. I remember raising my wand, meaning to kill the boy, but something went horribly wrong. Was I the one who died? I must have been...

I try to find the other Hogwarts ghosts, to ask them more about this strange state I find myself in, but I can't find them anywhere. They seem to be hiding from me. I catch a brief glimpse of the Bloody Baron, but he vanishes as soon as he sees me, a startled expression on his indistinct features. Perhaps the ghosts are afraid of me.

I linger in front of the silvery mirrors in the bathrooms, but I can find no face in the mirrors. I seek out the bathroom where the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets is concealed, and I find the silvery tap that is shaped like a twisting serpent. I whisper to it in parseltongue, but the serpent remains dead and immovable; it cannot hear my voice either.

I walk down to the lake at sunset when the fiery blood-red sun casts its blazing glory over the black waters. I gaze into the lake, but I can see no reflection in the water. I am a ghost...

...

There is a slight chill in the air now, a whisper of the frost that is soon to come. The heather is in bloom on the moors, and long, low lines of purple stretch away to the horizon. It must be close to September; I can feel it in the air. The students are coming back to Hogwarts.

Suddenly, there are people everywhere, and the ancient hallways echo with voices and laughter. I watch them from the shadows, and a strange loneliness comes over me.

I look for Harry, because I know him best, and I find him in the head boy's quarters. Of course he is head boy now - he has conquered the Dark Lord, and the other students gaze at him with adoration. I want to talk to him. There are so many things I long to say, but he cannot hear me. There is a girl with him; she never seems to leave his quarters for long. He buries his lips in her flaming hair, and whispers her name, over and over: Ginny... I call out his name, but he cannot hear me over her soft breathing.

There is a small courtyard inside the walls of Hogwarts, a small hidden garden surrounded by tall stone walls. It can only be seen from the windows of the head boy's or the head girl's rooms. Fragrant snow-white roses grow there, among strange statues of angels and demons and ancient stone plinths draped with velvet moss. I always thought of it as an enchanted garden; it has the air of something that is waiting, breathless, to be found. I had long since forgotten that it was there, but I smile to myself when I happen upon it again as I wander around the castle unseen.

One morning, I meet a girl in the garden, in the blue-white light of dawn. The solitary garden is filled with long blue morning shadows, and the world is silent and still around me. I like to sit on the marble bench in the shadows, as I once did, and listen to the faint rush of moving water from the fountains in the morning silence. The late roses are still in bloom, and their fragrance tears at my heart.

Someone pushes open the ornate garden gate with its iron arabesques and steps into the courtyard. A girl treads lightly over the grass. She dips her fingers in the silvery sprays from the fountain and stands there for a moment in the morning light. Her wild curls are luminous in the soft shimmering light; her hair gleams in shades of brown and bronze and deep gold, and I stare at her in wonder.

Her face has a haunting melancholy beauty to it, and my soul is suddenly filled with thoughts of angels and vast cathedrals. Then it occurs to me that I have seen her before. She was Harry's friend, wasn't she? I do not recall her name. Why did I never notice her arresting loveliness before?

I rise from the bench, and she turns her face towards me. Can she sense my presence? No, impossible - everyone else seems to see right through me...

She is coming towards me now, her hair luminous in the misty blue-white light slanting over the garden wall.

"Who are you?" she asks softly. "Have you always haunted this garden?"

She can see me. I feel a slight shiver at my spine.

She looks at me without fear, and I realize that she does not recognize me as the Dark Lord. I feel an absurd desire to lie to her, to make up a name and a sad and beautiful story of my life and death, just so she will stay here and talk to me. But somehow, it is not possible for a falsehood to cross my lips now. Perhaps it is impossible to lie once you are dead.

"My name is Tom," I whisper. "Tom Riddle."

She stands in silence for a long moment. Then she says, so softly that I almost cannot hear her: "You seem different now, Tom."

"Different how?" I can hear the trembling in my voice, the desperate plea. "How do I appear to you?"

She sits down on the old marble bench, and I sit down next to her. Her gaze travels over my features, and I feel that I must hold my breath under the weight of her glance. It seems to me that a great hush lies over the garden now, as if time itself has stopped moving.

"You look like a boy," she says finally. "Your curls are dark, and your eyes are silver-grey. Is this what you used to look like, before you became... him?"

I nod, slowly.

"You are quite beautiful." She sounds surprised. "You look almost like an angel." The last word lingers in the morning air, like a strange endearment.

I laugh then, and she smiles as well.

"An angel? Appearances deceive you, then. I think you know as well as I do that I am no angel, unless you mean the one that fell from heaven. What is your name?"

"Hermione."

"Hermione?" I repeat her name, slowly, as if it were an incantation. "Do I frighten you?"

She lifts her eyes and gazes at me. "You used to. When you were him... You frightened me more than anything in the world. But everything is different now, isn't it? Everything is different now that the war is over. Perhaps even you..." A slight flush brushes over her face. "It should feel all wrong, sitting here and talking to you, but somehow it doesn't."

She swallows. "Tell me, Tom, why did you come back here? Why did you come back to Hogwarts?"

I hesitate for a moment. Then I whisper: "This is the only place where I ever belonged. This is where I was truly myself. Before I became... someone else."

She regards me with earnest brown eyes. "Did you use to come to this garden, then? When you were still yourself? When you were still Tom?"

I nod. "Yes. I still remember the first time I saw this enchanted garden from my window. It looked almost unreal in the shimmering light of early morning." I point up to a window, high above us.

She smiles a little. "That's where Harry is sleeping now. He is head boy now, of course, and I am head girl." She hesitates. "It is a great honor, being head girl, but I know that I wasn't picked for me, for who I am. Harry and I were both picked because Hogwarts needed heroes now, after the war. It all fit so beautifully, you see: Harry had saved the wizarding world from the Dark Lord, and Ron and I had stood by his side. So what could be more natural than Harry being appointed head boy of Hogwarts, and me becoming head girl?" She shakes her head slightly. "They even made Ron Gryffindor Quidditch captain, just because it seemed so right. He doesn't even play Quidditch all that well, but that's irrelevant at a time like this. He is a hero; that's all that matters. The Gryffindor team will win all its matches out of sheer enthusiasm, no matter how hopeless Ron is as a captain." Hermione swallows. "We have become the stuff of legends, Harry, Ron and I. We have become part of stories told around warm fires in the evening, tales of great courage and faith and bravery. I have heard the stories they tell, and they are magnificent. Every small detail becomes so meaningful. Everything we suffered, everyone we lost - it's all becoming part of a great splendid story of good and evil. The legends are beautiful; they make everything seem so lovely and full of meaning - even the horrible, meaningless deaths of friends who should never have been lost. Their deaths are woven into this great tapestry of tales, and our losses are interpreted as necessary and inevitable, a part of a larger pattern that I cannot see..."

Tears rise in her eyes now. "I want to speak of what really happened, but they can't seem to hear me. No one can hear me. I want to speak of the hunger and the cold, the bitter sorrow and the meaningless losses, but they can't hear me... That's not how they want the story to be."

"What about Harry?" I whisper. "Does he feel as you do, or is he happy being a hero?"

Hermione smiles a little then. "Harry found someone who was waiting for him. He couldn't care less whether he is a hero or a failure; he can see no further than Ginny's flaming hair. And Ron is... rather enjoying being a hero for once. Perhaps I should enjoy it, too. But my heart is heavy with memories, and I find myself lying awake at night. I remember the faces of those who were lost, and I can't see meaning in their deaths, even if everyone else seems to. I can't seem to sleep; I roam around the castle at all hours. And sometimes..." She glances at me, and I feel something tear at my soul.

"And sometimes," I whisper, "you see things in the shadows that others cannot see."

"Will you always be here, Tom?" she asks quietly. "Here, in this garden?"

I nod slowly. "I think I will. It is peaceful here. Will you come and talk to me sometimes, Hermione?"

She gets up from the bench and smiles at me then. "I believe I will. I will come down when I see you from my window, Tom, and we can tell each other stories, of the way things really were."

...

She keeps her word. She comes and sits with me often in the shimmering light of dawn.

And sometimes I come and find her as well. I find her when she has fallen asleep over a book in the library, as she sometimes does. I read through her half-finished essays, and I whisper answers in her ear. She stirs in her sleep then; perhaps she can hear my voice in her dreams. And sometimes I kiss her gently on the mouth when she is sleeping. I do not know if she can sense it, but sometimes I see a slight smile hovering about her lips. Perhaps she is dreaming of me.


End file.
